The cathartic booing of Derek Jeter

The scoreboard flashed the signal for mass booing

Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter announced today that the 2014 season will be his last as a player.

This will no doubt unleash a torrent of weeping and praise from the Yankee-centric media. I mean, even more weeping and praise than usual.

It’s not going to be an easy year.

Someone has to provide balance, and that person is me.

Here’s a tale from the archives about when Will and I went to see the White Sox play the Yankees, and St. Derek got the booing he so richly deserved. And yet, it was a cathartic experience for this long-suffering Mets fan.

So while Tom Verducci starts getting ready for an ocean of soft rain, he’s a story from 2010 to help soften the blow.

You have to realize that since my time covering Mickey Weston, I don’t boo athletes.

Except for two, that is.

Chipper Jones has simply inflicted too much damage on the Mets over the years to go without some sort of recognition, and we can’t exactly cheer him. But Chipper’s been broken down for the past several seasons, and it been a decade since he’s had Met blood on his hands.

The other, of course, is Derek F. Jeter.

Usually this booing occurs in the relative quiet of my home. But Will and I had the rare opportunity to voice our displeasure to Jeter in person on Frank Thomas Day, and this is the final report of that adventurous afternoon.

Chipper earned his boos for doing his job, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jeter, however, is an on-going insult. He’s not just your basic Yankee, Jeter is Mr. Yankee, and truly is reflective of everything that is wrong with the franchise in the Bronx. Over-hyped, over-paid, over-exposed, over-credited and over-privileged.

We all know that the best shortstop on the Yankees is playing third base because it would be unthinkable to ask the Captain to change positions, despite the very obvious fact that Jeter has the range of a fire hydrant.

(Note: Here is another tale from the archives listing players who have more range than Derek Jeter)

Yet there are scribes like Ian O’Connor who give Jeter a complete pass. I can only assume O’Connor Tweeted this with a straight face: “Despite all the sabermetrics, there is a hell of a value in Jeter's ability to turn every ball hit right at him into an out. #yankees”

I pointed out to the brilliant folks at the Crane Pool Forum that a Major League shortstop is supposed to be able to turn every ball hit right to him into an out. 

Several posters noted that, in fact, minor-league shortstops also are expected to field the ones hit right at them.

Upon further thought, I realized that all players at every level are expected to turn routine plays, even people on my champion coed softball team.

Yet, Jeter has apologists like ESPN’s Joe Morgan, who watch him turn a routine six-bouncer into an out, and proclaim nonsense like “Jeter’s so good, he makes that play look routine.”

Witness the reaction to Jeter’s recent incident of shame against the Rays. A pitch came inside, Jeter leaned back and the ball hit the bat, obvious to all. That would be called a strike on most batters. Yet Jeter started carrying on as if he had not only been hit, but that the ball pounded his hand into hamburger. He was awarded first base, and the next batter hit a home run.

Replays indicated that Jeter is better actor than a shortstop. Exposed as a liar and cheat, Jeter told reporters after the game that it’s his job to get on base any way possible. Funny, but I don’t remember Yankee greats like Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mattingly flopping around and calling for the trainer when they wanted to get on first base. Usually they just hit the ball.

But the fawning New York media again gave Jeter a pass, citing his “intangibles.” Imagine how different the reaction would have been had the faker been Carlos Beltran.

Yes, Jeter has five rings. He’s also surrounded in the lineup by at least five All-Stars. Let’s see him take is legendary intangibles to Pittsburgh and take the lowly Pirates to the World Series. That will never happen.

So all of this pent-up angst had built up by the time Jeter stepped into the box against Sox starter Gavin Floyd in the first inning.

Boooooooooooooooooo!

It was a long, heartfelt display that seemed to take the other people in the section by surprise. 

Frankly, I expected more people to join in. Sox fans were more interested in voicing displeasure toward Nick Swisher, a former under-achieving South Sider now over-achieving with the Yanks.

Jeter meekly popped out the right. This was followed by cheers, followed by Cousin Tim’s legendary “O-ver RA-ted, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap” taunt, which generated a far-greater response at Shea in 2008.

This scenario was repeated in the third and fifth innings, and involved Jeter strikeouts. They were swinging strikeouts, of course, since no umpire is bold enough to call Derek Jeter out on strikes.

We were started to get some cranky looks from a group sitting to our right, all clad in ugly Yankee T-shirts. I did not fear them because, like in a libel case, truth is the best defense and deep down all Yankee fans must know that the emperor isn't wearing any pinstripes.

I actually missed Jeter being announced in the eighth inning, and the delayed booing at Will’s prompting resulted in Jeter walking, and then advancing to second on a wild pitch.

Luckily we were afforded one last chance in the top of the ninth, when Derek the Menace strode to the plate with two out.

I let loose with the much-deserved booooooo when the Yankee fans to the right hatched an obviously premeditated defense. They were attempting to drown out my boo with cheers. It was six on one.

I would not, could not, lose this battle.

I produced a deep, dark, loud boooooooooooooo that arose from the depths of my blue-and-orange soul. It was cathartic. Every injustice endured at the hands of Yankee fans and their media fawners seemed to be set loose, released from my heart and through my cupped hands.

Everything from the McKenna Junior High taunts of 1977 and 1978 through the bat-tossing, Timo-jogging fiasco that was the 2000 Subway series and the Castillo pop drop of 2009 had broken loose.

This was, without a doubt, the longest, most resonating booooo I've ever produced. Philadelphia fans strive to create a booo this loud and long. And yet it was purifying all at the same time.

The weak cheers of the T-shirted gang of six were no match for my disgust and suffering. This boo rose from our perch in the upper deck to hover over U.S. Cellular Field like a fog. 

This was a boo intended to envelope Jeter in self-awareness and shame. I was expecting him to return to the Yankee bench, plop down – and see his teammates all slide away, disgusted.

I started to feel pity for Jeter. Deep down, he knows the truth. Hype doesn't outlast history.

I’m confident that all 10,000 of the Frank Thomas bobbleheads handed out that day nodded in agreement.

I easily outlasted the Yankee posers. Cleansed of decades of Yankee hurt, I could have continued into extra innings. And I feel the need to boo him no more.

Bad postcard of the week: Mystery spots at Central Michigan University

What could possibly have created that mysterious stain?

I don’t think Dad was impressed with my University of Missouri dorm when he saw it for the first time.

“It looks like a condemned mental hospital,” he said.

Floyd Cramer Hall was not luxurious, it’s true. There was no air-conditioning and not much of a breeze, save for Tony’s “Wind Machine” fan to bring relief from Missouri’s humidity. And the radiator clanged loudly throughout the night when the weather was cold. We shared a bathroom with guys from about six other rooms.

So I get it when the folks at Central Michigan University in 1956 thought their sparking new dorm was state of the art college living.

The back reads: “Rachel Tate Hall, Central Michigan University, Mt. Pleasant, Michigan.  One of the newest and finest residence halls in the country. It accommodates 304 students, 4 to a suite. Each suite consisting of 2 bedrooms, a study room and complete bath. Each suite is furnished modern throughout with house phone included. Residents take their meals in Food Commons.”

I’m sure it’s a nice place and all. But there is one highly scary detail in the photo that the postcard copy writer omits. What the heck is that giant stain in the parking lot? What did they do, celebrate the dedication by detonating an elephant?

It’s unsettling, to be sure. Especially since the building has the architectural charm of a warehouse. A potential student would what to know what kind of devastation occurs in the parking lot before moving into such a charmless place.

And it was a pretty rowdy place, according to a CMU historical site:

“Its location next to the Carlin Alumni House, which was the university president's residence at the time, led to many dinner invitations to the president and his wife as apologies for excess noise. In 1958, the entire Homecoming court lived from Tate Hall. The building housed women from 1956 to 1972, and became coed until it was demolished, along with Barnard, in 1997. They had been closed due to low enrollment, structural problems, and general inefficiency. The decision to raze them was based on the high cost of remodeling.”  

We never did such wild things in Cramer Hall, but it has one thing in common with Tate Hall: it’s been demolished.

Floyd Cramer Hall has it was being demolished in 2010. It was home from 1984 to 1986.

I found some photos of its destruction on aaRoon’s Flickr site. Room 4 would have been the next window on the left if we could extend the photo a little.

Temperature issues aside, it was a neat place. While other campus dorms had painted cinder-block walls, Cramer and the four others in our cluster had tan, glazed brick walls. It was different.

It wasn’t carpeted, and “California Steve” and I celebrated our great purchase of a remnant that couldn’t have been bigger than three feet by four feet. We could barely fit on it on the same time. But that was our carpeting.

Tony and I upgraded the bunk beds with wooden lofts, hand-me-downs from Becky and Karen when they moved on. We were styling!

And Cramer was part of Mizzou’s grand experiment – the first coed door. I was there for its first year of mingling the genders. The first floor was for guys, the second and third for girls and top floor for guys. Lacking an elevator, the first floor was the place to be.

I had adventures, experienced new things and met new people. I learned about living from home and shared a room for the first time. I was blessed with patient roommates who tolerated Mets and Twisted Sister posters and all things New York.

Like Tate Hall here, it wasn't much to look at. But it was the setting for many transitions and good times.

Fortunately, there were no mysterious stains outside.

Bad postcard of the week: No one monkeys around at the music competition

Magical, musical chimps at the St. Louis Zoo.

See the expression on the face of the chimp driving this thing? I know what’s going on here. They’re headed off to the school band and orchestra solo and ensemble district competition.

I've made that face.

The back reads: “Three battery-powered jeeps driven by chimpanzees and followed by trailers loaded with chimpanzee performers … that’s the audience’s first view of the St. Louis Zoo’s famous Chimpanzee Show. Shown here from left to right are Pancho, Becky, Ellen and Tony.”

So, Tony is Dad. He’s in for a long morning.

We attended such an event this week. Let me tell you how this goes.

Hang in there, Tony!

First, the day seems to start with about 6 inches of snow. I don’t know if that happens every year, but it has happened the two years I've been a part of this, so I’m just going by experience.

You need to know that band kids are sticklers not just for being on time, but being incredibly early. The mantra is that “early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.” I suppose when you are dealing with a daily gathering of several hundred teenagers, this is necessary.

But the snow adds another layer of tension to the carefully contemplated schedule. It slows us down. We might just be early instead of incredibly early.

After checking in, we rush to the practice room. This is where 15 or so kids are playing the same kind of instrument, but different songs, starting and stopping at different points. It is impressive that the kids can focus on their own songs among the cacophony. Adults can stand it only for a few minutes before retiring to the hall.

The serious playing before the judges takes place in another room. There is a schedule hanging on the door. 

This schedule is fiction.

I say this because each student hires for the day a piano accompanist. There are several hundred kids, and, I suspect, a dozen accompanists. They are saints. They also are usually triple booked. They are never there for the actual starting time.

This is par for the course, and the adult working in each room knows this. They fit the kids in when they can as the accompanist arrives.

Second and third year students also know that this is how this works. They are relatively calm. You can tell the first-year parents and students because they are the ones pacing, looking at their watches, swearing under – and sometimes over – their breaths and banging their heads on the lockers.

Finally the accompanist arrives and there is much rejoicing as the student is directed into the room. Often, the student has an entourage of parents, siblings, friends, neighbors, classmates and pets.

Or, they go in alone.

My musician is in the second category because of the “eighth-grade incident.” Apparently I walked in too soon after the performance. These days, I’m lucky I’m allowed in the building at all. I’m probably one mistake away from being told to wait in the car. I am allowed to peek through the window, if the door has one.

The musician enters the room with the accompanist with two sets of sheet music – one to read from and the other for the judge to follow along.

Then, the playing begins. It is masterful. At least it sounds that way to the untrained ear.

The judge listens carefully and take notes. When the piece is completed, he approaches the student. Being teachers, they tend to offer all kinds of helpful guidance, talking about what went right and what could be improved. The kids wouldn't be in this event unless they were skilled, so this is really working around the margins, polishing an already shining gem.

Naturally, no one sees it this way.

Everyone leaves the room in tears – the student, the parents, the friends, the siblings, the neighbors and classmates. I think I saw a pocketbook puppy crying once, too. It was hard to tell.

There is a lot of hugging and consoling in the corridor. No one thinks they performed their best. They doubt their ability and their song selection. 

Note: suggesting that next time they play a really cool Ramones song and take the judge by surprise is never, ever considered funny.

The day is ruined and students vow to hide from their friends for days, lest they ask how they did. We wallow in our shame.

After what seems like ages, the door opens again and the helper emerges with the judge’s verdict.  A musician can earn a 1, a 2, a 3 or a participation certificate.

There is much rejoicing when the perception of the judge changes from cranky, partially deaf old man to wise master of music as we skip down to the redemption table to claim our medal.

Then, Tony the chimp, the instruments are packed up, the grandparents are called and everyone piles back into to car, safe for another year – or at least until the state competition in the spring.

Bad postcard of the week: Michigan Tech University and Houghton, Mich. scoff at our measly snowfall

Michigan Tech's coed dorm in July.

It seems like it’s been snowing non-stop for the last week, which makes for a lot of grumbling, especially since the snow blower will  be in the repair shop for a week.

I did some research after shoveling yesterday and the accumulated snow is two Mets gnomes high! A Mets gnome is just over 10 inches tall, so we’re talking some serious snow action.

That brings us to this week’s bad postcard, which comes from Michigan Tech University, way up in Houghton, Mich.

The back reads” COED RESIDENCE HALL, MICHIGAN TECHNOLOGICAL UNIVERSITY, Houghton, Michigan, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

So much to work with here,

First. Houghton is far away. It’s in the furthest reaches of the Upper Peninsula. Residents can practically see the North Pole. Santa quite possibly buys his groceries at the Houghton IGA and reindeer feed at the Houghton Farm and Fleet.  

How far is it? Let’s say a bunch of drivers were leaving Detroit, with one car was headed to Washington, D.C., one to Minneapolis, one to New York and the other to Houghton.

The drivers headed to New York, Minneapolis and Washington would arrive at their destinations before the people headed to Houghton, and that’s not counting built in time for that carload of folks to stop and climb Castle Rock, which they obviously would do.

And snow. Let’s just say the proud people of Houghton would scoff at my lamenting two feet of snow. The average winter snowfall there is 218 inches. That’s 18.1 feet of snow. Or, using our new unit of measurement, 21.2 Mets gnomes!

Snow depth is now measured in Mets gnomes. Houghton averages 20 gnomes worth of snow.

So, back to our rather bland postcard.

This card is firmly planted in the ghost town genre of bad postcards, since there we get a building and no signs of people. I do see two cars, which raises the possibility that there might be at least two people inside. But we can’t see them, so that’s just a guess.

We can see that this photo was taken somewhere between July 4 and July 21, the period known as “rough sledding.”

I see one big problem: rampant hooliganism. Clearly someone has driven on the grass right before the photog arrived.

But here’s the mystery. “Coed” is the outdated term for a female college student. There are girls at Michigan Tech?

This postcard was sent to Louise and Alice in Dearborn Heights in 1969. According to the sometimes accurate Wikipedia, the male to female student ratio was 22 to 1 in 1960. So that means our cars belong to both residents and there was a lot of open rooms.

These days, the ratio isabout 3 to 1, with about 1,800 of the 7,000 students being women.

Some interesting Michigan Tech facts:

It is a world-class engineering school.

It was founded as Michigan Mining School in 1885.

The school’s teams are named the Huskies, and the mascot is Blizzard T. Huskie.

The hockey team has won three national championships, and counts famed goaltender Tony Esposito as an alumni

Winter Carnival is a big deal, and the highlight is a snow statue competition.

Michigan Tech students hold world records: the largest snowball, boasting a 21-foot circumference, and the largest snowball fight, involving 3,745 people. Both were set in 2006.

The school for a time held the record for most people simultaneously making snow angels, with 3,784.Apparently about 40 people wanted no part of the snowball fight, but didn’t mind making snow angels.

The snow angel record was swiped from the people of Bismarck, N.D., who apparently were not too pleased. Bismarck is one of those places where, if you mess with them, they will unleash their collective fury.

Bismarck took back the record the next year, with nearly 9,000 people flailing about in the snow. There are only about 60,000 people in Bismarck.

Do not mess with Bismarck.

Bad postcard of the week: Life and death of Grindstone City, a one-industry town

Somewhere, off in the distance, there is a camera-shy kid.

Here’s a little-known fact about Michigan: The very tip of the Thumb was once a thriving center for grindstone production.

Not that this week’s bad postcard gives us much information.

The back reads: “MICHIGAN THUMB SCENERY: Grindstone City – Marker – in memoriam – 1938 passing of the once thriving industry.”

I see lots of random dashing and capitalization in there, and not a lot of information.

The front is full of mysteries.

Why, for example is the photographer so far away? Seriously, Casey Kasem accepted long-distance dedications from people who were closer than our shutterbug and his subjects.

But far away photos are a classic bad postcard genre, so we like that.

Why are the people climbing the grindstone facing away from our photog? Are they camera shy? Why did they climb the stone in the first place? Is this some sort of Thumb thrill-seeking? What if that thing toppled over? Splat! Maybe the photographer was getting ready for what he expected to be a newsy photo of grindstone disasters.

What about the kid in the red pants? Did she help the others up? Did she decline the climb, fearing the imminent disaster?

We just don’t know.

I did discover a blog that explained some of the town’s history.

In a nutshell, a captain pulled his boat into the natural harbor during a storm and his crew found a bunch of flat stones along the water front. The captain took samples to Detroit where there was paving planned, and the powers-that-be decided the rocks were superior to stones from Ohio. Of course.

The crew also determined the stones were great for grinding, and an industry was born.

And, as soon as people discovered a cheaper alternative – carborundum – an industry died.

Activity in Grindstone City grind to a halt in 1929, and the city suffered from putting all of its economic eggs in a one-industry basket.

Did other Michigan cities learn from Grindstone City’s one-industry mistake? Well, I worked in Flint for 10 years.

People living in the Thumb are certainly proud of their scenery even when it’s not especially scenic.

My “Michigan Thumb Scenery” collection includes this beauty of the Blue Water Bridge. Well, a close-up view of the bridge’s guard rail.

Such wonderful scenery!

Let’s face it, when you have a guard rail that cool, you must show it off.

My other “Thumb Scenery” makes it painfully clear that thelumber industry is based in the Upper Peninsula and not the Thumb.

Someone was very proud of his pruning abilities.

Here's a link to the other Thumb postcards and others from the MLive days.

As Metrodome dome deflates for farewell, a magical memory remains

Kind of a sad day in Minneapolis, as the roof on the famed dome on the Hubert Humphrey Metrodome was deflated for the final time as the last remaining tenant is moving on to a new stadium.

The Metrodome was, of course, the home of the Minnesota Twins for a long time, and provided the setting for one of my favorite baseball adventures -- filled with mischief and risk.

Let's head to the archives for today's story

"Are you here for the tour?" the Metrodome employee asked me.

Sometimes baseball adventures happen with no advance notice, and a fan must think on his feet.

I was in the Twin Cities for an education writers’ conference in 1996, and such trips sometimes allow for some limited sightseeing.


With a break one day, I walked down to the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, which is located on the fringe of downtown Minneapolis. There was a fun and ancient memorabilia store across the street. The stores surrounding Wrigley, Fenway and even Tiger Stadium had more of the fun, old things that I liked.

And the Metrodome itself will never be confused with those ballparks. It’s pretty dull looking, virtually the same from any angle. There were some stylized cutouts of athletes and musicians in an area outside, a tribute to the multi-use nature of the facility.

I walked around snapping photos and noticed some people in the lobby, so I pushed through the revolving glass door, thinking maybe a gift store was open.

An employee approached as soon as I stepped inside.

“Are you here for the tour?”

There is, of course, only one answer.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Oh, good, your group just started. Go down this hallway and you can catch up with them.”

I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I also proceed with caution. If this was some senior citizens club or some folks who did not appreciate a late-arriving imposter, I’d be outed – and ousted – immediately.



Turning the corner, I found what appeared to be a group of Cub Scouts with dad chaperones.

I stood at the end of the group. A couple people of looked over. I waved and smiled – one of those awkward “Sorry I’m late” waves, at them as well as the group of kids.

I suspect they figured I was the father of one of the kids in the group, one of those dads who does not get too involved and chaperones only cool sporting activities.

The tour guide continued talking as if nothing was amiss and everyone’s attention quickly turned back to her.

Phew!

It was a pretty good tour, starting in one of the inner tunnels of the stadium, which looked more like the inside of something like the Nassau Coliseum than a baseball stadium.

We went up into the press box, and looked down at the field for the first time. A college football team was practicing down one end of the field, but the infamous “Hefty Bag” outfield wall was there for all to see.

It looked like there were giant curtains in the upper deck in the outfield covering some of the seats, and massive banners of players hung in front of the curtains.

Still, it looked like a pretty sterile place.

We peeked into a luxury box, and then back down to the lower level.

Moving around with the group, I engaged in careful small talk with the dads. “Pretty neat, huh?” “The kids sure are having a good time.” “We should do this again sometime.”

No one asked which kid was mine. I worried about this.

We paused in front of a door that led to the Twins clubhouse, but were not allowed inside. Then we took the tunnel out to the field and on to the artificial turf.

The guide pointed out the luxury boxes again from the field, noting one in particular. She said that Rick Aguilera was ticked off at something that season and threw a ball so hard that it broke one of the windows. Manager Tom Kelly, she said, was not pleased and made Aguilera pay to replace the glass.

Aggie seemed pretty mild-mannered as a Met, so I figured something about Minneapolis must have got to him. Probably Prince.

Then the guide told us we’d have some time to ourselves to run around the field as long as we didn’t go too close to the football players or go on the mound and dirt sliding places around the bases.

Sweet!

I headed straight to the Hefty Bag because A) I didn’t want to linger near the other dads in case one started to get chatty and ask questions, and B) It’s the Hefty Bag in the Metrodome!

I remember a Dodge ad stretched from the right field foul pole all the way into far right-centerfield. Simply massive.

And I was surprised there was little effort to conceal all the seats in the outfield sections that were sideways because they were folded up. It seemed kind of like the kind of thing you’d see in a high school gymnasium.

Before long, some of the kids joined me and we were all making pretend Kirby-like catches up against the wall. Kids don’t ask questions.

I also paused to look up at the inflatable gray ceiling and imagine what it’s like to follow the flight of a fly ball, a notoriously difficult act in the Dome.

After a while, the guide waved us back in and the tour was done. I stuck with the group through the lobby then drifted away outside, quickly making it back to the hotel and the conference.

The Twins this year also bid farewell to the Metrodome, with the Division Series defeat against the vile Yankees likely to be the final baseball game there.

The field opened on April 3, 1982, baseball’s third domed stadium -- behind the Astrodome and Kingdome -- and first with an inflatable roof. It cost $68 million, and, as the guide proudly told us, was $2 million under budget.

It remains the only venue to host an MLB All-Star Game, a World Series – twice – an NCAA Final Four and a Super Bowl.

And, apparently, it allows tours for Cub Scout groups – and their friends.

Bad postcard of the week: Windowless, riot-proof buildings at University of Michigan and Mizzou

University of Michigan's Space Research Building seems to have more trees that visible students.

I remember walking around the University of Missouri campus during my orientation tour, and we passed a rather ugly building with very small windows.

The tour guide told us that the building was constructed during the turbulent 1960s, and that the building was designed with small windows to withstand campus riots.

I thought this was odd.

There are, of course, many buildings on the University of Missouri campus, and the rest of them had big, or at least, numerous windows.

I envisioned some kind of system where administrators, the best football players, and other campus VIPs would be abruptly pulled from their offices or Harpo’s and whisked to the windowless building at the first hint of trouble.

Imagine the poor guy working the door, debating who should  be allowed inside and who was deemed expendable or least able to survive hordes of enraged students.

I came to suspect that while our orientation guide was skilled at walking backward while talking, she was spinning lies.

Mizzou students struggled to organize a simple task of holding hands across campus for the great Hands Across America crusade.

A riot? Students would require three weeks advance notice to order t-shirts and party favor boxers. Plus, they’d have to work around the schedule of the party pics photographer.

I thought of those experiences – and my party pics – when I came across this week’s bad postcard.

The back reads: “Space Physics Building, The University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Michigan. This building was provided through a NASA grant to expand University facilities for aerospace research. On June 15, 1965, two University of Michigan graduates, astronauts Lt. Col. James A. McDivitt and Lt. Col. Edward H. White, helped dedicate this building.”

The message is kind of funny. Terry writes to Ricky in Thousand Oaks, Calif., saying, “This is part of my school. It’s so big I’ll have to ride a bus between some classes. (My school is bigger than yours.)”

Those crazy Wolverines. Always boasting. And Ricky must not go to The Ohio State University.

Back to the building. We have another building with very small – practically non-existent – windows.

Let’s dismiss the whole riot thing. I've been to Ann Arbor. If students didn't riot when Crazy Jim’s Blimpy Burger was shut down last year, they’re not going to riot for anything.

So let’s consider the function of windows.

Perhaps the architects didn't want passersby to see what kind of secret science stuff was going on inside.  

Perhaps they didn't want people to see U of M students?  That can’t be, because I know some and they are very nice.

Perhaps they wanted to cut down on operating expenses. Window-washing is expensive.

Perhaps they’re using the casino model and thought that if students couldn't see the outside world they’d lose track of time and keep working.

We just don’t know.

New Baseball Hall of Famer Frank Thomas and the 'magical, misty night at Tiger Stadium'

Tim Raines and Frank Thomas at Tiger Stadium

We've told this story before, but it's worth repeating as we celebrate the election of our non-Met hero Frank Thomas and Met Tom Glavine to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Will and I were huge Frank Thomas fans even before I came into possession of the glorious sphere now known as "The Frank Ball."

The slugger came onto the scene just around the time both of us had moved to Flint. And we believed the tall first-baseman with the mega-watt smile would be the person to finally lead the moribund White Sox to better things.

We both had the life-sized poster of Frank — his last name was unnecessary by now — gracing our homes and collected his cards.

But actual contact with our hero was elusive.

We were on the field before the final game at Comiskey Park, rubbing elbows with Sox catcher Ron Karkovice and reliever Scott Radinsky, but Frank was nowhere to be found.

A year later we waited on a long cattle-chute autograph line at the White Sox Winterfest, snaking back and forth while Frank signed, smiled and posed with other fans — only to have the slugger heart-breakingly replaced with other signers as we inched closer. Minnie Minoso and then-manager Gene LaMont are nice guys, but we wanted Frank.

And at one Tigers-Sox game, an early afternoon shower washed out batting practice, leaving players lots of time to sign autographs. Two-thirds of the Sox signed a ball for me — but Frank remained in the clubhouse.

So when the White Sox were in Detroit for a series with the Tigers in early 1992, we weren’t discouraged by the showers that fell throughout the day.

In fact, we liked going to Tiger Stadium in such conditions. The vast majority of the lower deck is covered, and the rain kept a lot of people home, especially early in the season. We’d buy the cheapest tickets and sit pretty much wherever we wanted.

My favorite spot was section 224, right behind the visitors’ dugout on the first-base side and with easy access to a concession stand. That night Will and I were joined by friends John and Emily — my wife wanted no part of damp, cold nights at the ballpark.

There was a miserable drizzle that fell through most of the night, light enough to keep playing and wet enough to either send people home early or keep under cover. We sat toward the back of the section, bundled up and well under the overhang.

I wore a 1980s-era Sox cap — with a purpose, of course.

The new, black cap with the Old English lettering was all the rage, even with people who didn’t follow baseball. I wanted to show I was an actual Sox fan — such things are important.

I’ve followed the team as a secondary favorite since Tom Seaver played for them from 1984 to 1986, and had to stand out from the bandwagon-jumping cap-buyers. The tri-color 1980s cap, with the futuristic S-O-X, is so brutally ugly that only a real fan would be caught with such a thing. Keep in mind, this was long before the retro craze that made all things ugly popular again.

By later in the game, the drizzle diminished into more of a mist and there was probably less than a thousand people in the stands. Emily and I decided to move down to the row of seats directly behind the Sox dugout during the eighth inning. The orange-capped Tiger Stadium ushers had long-since lost interest in chasing seat-hoppers.

Frank was playing first base, so we were able to get a close look. After the inning ended Frank walked back toward the dugout and glanced up. We weren’t hard to see since all the other seats were empty. That, and we were screaming his name.

I think Frank heard us.

I think people in the left field stands probably heard us.

He looked up, flashed the mega-watt grin.

We had made eye-contact with Frank. Yes!

We were not leaving those seats.

The Tigers went meekly in the bottom of the ninth. Out No. 3 was a routine grounder to short with an easy throw to our man Frank at first. Game over.

Walking back to the dugout, Frank looked up, making eye contact a second time. Yes!

Then the unthinkable happened.

As he got closer, Frank took the gameball from his glove. "HEY!" he said in my direction, then tossed the ball — a soft arc through the mist to my outstretched left hand.

It took a nano-second for the gloriousness of the moment to sink in. Frank Thomas, the elusive Frank Thomas, had just given me a ball that ended a Major League game.

I remember yelling "Thanks, Frank!" and some guy saying "Hey, can I have that?" As if.

I’d once snagged a foul ball at a New Britain Red Sox game, and had a batting practice ball from the Rochester Red Wings from when I was on the field for an interview. Valued treasures, to be sure. But this one was special.

Frank’s career with the Sox had ups and downs, but he had an impressive career, with two Most Valuable Player awards and more than 500 homers. Congrats to the baseball writers for getting it right and enshrining Frank on his first try. (And a loud boooo for continuing to deny Mike Piazza.) The game ball is enshrined in plastic with a card from that year, an permanent exhibit in the baseball room of what has come to be known as the "magical, misty night at Tiger Stadium."

Bad postcard of the week: Life, death, skiing and broken snow blowers.

We've been dealing with a lot of snow this Christmas break. 

So much snow that I’ve been busy shoveling instead of posting bad postcard stories.

Note that I say “shoveling” instead of saying “powering up the snow blower.”

Remember at the very end of last winter, when it seemed like something got caught in the snow blower and there was that nasty burning smell, but it was OK because we had all spring, summer and fall to fix it?

You don’t remember? Neither did I – until I got the thing gassed up and fired up and made a swoop up and down the driveway and wondered why no snow was joyfully getting sucked up and flying out.

Reality set in that snow blower blades do not fix themselves.

Luckily, I have very, very understanding and kind neighbors who do have functioning snow blowers and have taken pity on me until I can find a small engine repair shop.

And I need to get it fixed, because after Snowpocalpyse 2014 this week, I suspect the reasonably priced model I saw at Lowe’s after Christmas is long gone.

I do have a nice shovel, and we have been reacquainted.

The abundant snowfall  also has cancelled school for at least the first two days this week, which means Christmas break has been extended by a couple days. That means that I can keep playing Christmas music for at least one more day.

It also means I can use a Christmas postcard for this week’s entry.

We did several things in the snow this weekend. Mostly shovel, and drag the former Christmas tree through the woods to its new home.

One thing we did not do was roll around like Hans and Dieter here.

We’re not sure what happened. The back reveals only that it was printed in Germany.

We see Dieter laying there covered in snow with his poles nowhere to be found. We see Hans standing over him, with his gear on his shoulders.

A couple potential scenarios.

First, maybe Dieter was on the receiving end of a pre-Wide World of Sports “agony of defeat” moment. Hans is a member of the junior ski patrol sent to either apply first aid or retrieve the body. Dieter apparently survived, though Hans doesn't seem all that thrilled.

Or, maybe Dieter is trying to make snow angels, and Hans disgustedly reminds him that you first need to take off the skis. Dieter’s snow angels just don’t look good.

Or, this is what passed for après-ski fun in the days before fancy ski lodges with big stone fireplaces and sweater-clad ski bunnies sipping hot cocoa while eagerly listening to epic – if not slightly exaggerated -- tales of conquering the double black diamond run. Or, in my case, the epic – and completely true – tale of wiping out trying to climb off the ski lift, laying sprawled at the base as the operator tries not to roll his eyes as he brings the whole thing to a halt and helps me recover my jettisoned skis and far-flung poles.

Or, that thing above Dieter and to the right of Hans in the background that looks kinda like a polar bear is indeed a hungry snow bruin who realizes that lunch is soon to be served as Dieter is lying down and Hans can’t run too quickly in the snow.

We just don’t know.

Merry Christmas!

The Gnome of Victory and Celebration is back after spending the last month at church with Pastor Sarah.

He needed it.

Now he's hoping everyone has a very merry Christmas. We've been truly blessed this year.